


brink

by Amber



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Asexual Character, Desperation, Dirty Talk, Do Not Archive, Humiliation, Id Fic, M/M, Omorashi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Small Penis, Teasing, Watersports, Wetting, i considered putting this in the anonymous collection but decided fuck it, mods are asleep post niche kinky fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 11:25:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16263233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: Jon can't quite hold it.





	brink

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't written for my October daily challenge, it's just shameful self-indulgence, nobody look at me.
> 
> **Standard disclaimer:** Please don't link this to the creators. Please don't repost my fic on other websites. Transformative works or quotes with a link are fine and you don't need to tell me or ask permission (but I would love to know!)

Typically recording a statement only takes Jon half an hour at the very longest. So when he finally finds a moment near the end of a busy day to settle down with the tape recorder, Jon decides he ought to read the one he's been researching this week. Otherwise he'll have to wait until Monday, and, well... he'd rather get some sleep this weekend.

"Jon," says Martin from the doorway, damn him. "You know it's past five, right?"

"I am aware," says Jon briskly. Martin doesn't even have to say anything, just gives him a look, and Jon sighs. "Yes, I know, but I need to get this done before I go. It won't take long."

Martin doesn't look impressed, but Jon is actually his boss, so instead of scolding he says. "Right. Cup of tea, then?"

"Shouldn't _you_ be headed home, Martin?" Jon asks pointedly, although he would actually love a cup of tea — there's something grounding about having a hot drink to hold while he records.

"Actually," says Martin, looking a bit sheepish, mouth pulling sideways. He reaches up and fiddles with the collar of his anorak. "Yeah, um, thing is, after all that business with — with Elias, and the Unknowing, I kind of haven't been... well, there's still a camp bed downstairs, and I just feel, I don't know, safer here? Even if it does get a bit spooky late at night."

"Don't say spooky," says Jon immediately, but that's beside the point. "You're living at the Institute again."

"Yeah," admits Martin.

"Martin, I'm not sure that's wise."

"Yeah," he agrees again. "I know that, I do, it's just... it was all right last time, wasn't it? It won't be for long, just until my nightmares go back to normal instead of..."

"A surreal word salad?" Jon guesses. Martin nods with a grimace. "All right," says Jon, "Well, I won't try and stop you. And I suppose if you're staying you might as well fetch some tea. Close the door on your way, please, I'm going to start recording."

"Thanks, Jon," Martin says quietly. Looks at Jon for a moment and then goes.

That look. Jon can't help but remember Basira and Melanie gossiping on those tapes, about how Martin could get so protective of _his Archivist_. He'd dismissed them while listening, more interested in the actual statements that made it to tape, but there was something about Martin's expression just then, hopeless fondness caught just before he turned away, that makes Jon wonder if perhaps there was something to their speculation. Martin was always so kind. Jon briefly allows himself to think about what that kindness would be like in a romantic partner, and then remembers the tape recorder, which reclaims his entire interest greedily.

The statement is a sheaf of photocopied handwriting and typed follow-up notes, an old tale from not long after Jonah Magnus' era. Jon realizes he has perhaps made an erroneous assumption about how long this will take when Martin slips in with tea and he's still reading the first page. It's not just the cramped handwriting; something about the narrator lends itself to a slow, distinct drawl, making every sentence take twice as long as it should.

When Martin peeks in again an hour or so later Jon is still recording. Martin looks concerned: he is a little concerned about Jon working so late, but doesn't want to nag him on tape, so he just puts a finger to his lips and tiptoes over to take Jon's empty mug, comes back with a fresh cup, to which Jon nods his gratitude even as he describes a particularly gruesome facet of the Corruption's influence, a single tape worm grown to inhabit a child's entire body, puppeting it even in death.

When Martin comes back in again, he actually interrupts with a soft, "Jon, it's been two hours—"

"I'm almost done, thank you, Martin," Jon responds sharply, because he always gets persnickety about interruptions. Martin nods, unhappy but aware there's not much he can do about it, takes his mug to go wash up. Brings back a glass of water — Jon must surely need it, the rasp in his voice is at this point audible. Then he just sits in the opposite chair, because Jon's voice is soothing and the Institute is otherwise very dark and very empty.

"Statement ends," says Jon, and sighs with relief. Picks up the water and downs the whole glass — "Thank you, Martin," he says. "Now, there are just a few notes—"

Even as he begins to read them, discomfort starts to make itself known. Typically the feelings of reading a statement overwhelm his senses to the point that most other things feel inconsequential, so it's probably not a surprise to find his bladder tight and heavy. It's likely been bothering him for a while and he didn't notice. Jon isn't very good at cataloguing physical sensations even when he's not inhabiting the ghostly perceptions of a long-dead man.

He crosses his legs, and reads out the follow up research, the phone calls and clarifications and so on. Martin is right there, so he doesn't wriggle, keeps himself still and upright and perfectly composed right up until he says End Recording and turns the tape off.

"God," says Martin, "That was a long one. I was starting to worry you'd be here all night. Um, I hope I didn't interrupt too much, I just thought, you haven't eaten, so maybe if you'd like I could order a pizza or something?"

Jon forces himself to uncross his legs, to slowly stand, the movement making him suddenly very aware of how badly he needs to piss. Combined with the relief and lethargy of finishing a statement, and the awkwardness of not being sure if Martin's overtures here are entirely friendly (or if he wants to rebuff them either way) it makes for an overwhelming barrage of sensation, and he puts one hand on the desk.

"Jon, are you all right?" Martin inquires softly, nervous.

"Fine," Jon grits out. "I just." He just needs to use the bathroom. He just needs to make it out of his office, and down the hall, to where the employee bathrooms are. But he had his mouth washed out with soap enough as a child that he struggles to speak of certain things, and bathroom activities are one. "Order the pizza," he decides, because that seems the fastest way to get Martin out of his hair without being crude. "I'll be back in a moment."

He makes it all the way out of his office before he has to press a desperate hand between his legs, squeezing his cock, thighs together. He does a little jiggle on the spot, trying to relieve the intense pressure, and when it abates (barely) he rushes towards the staff bathroom.

Which is locked. Because it's well after five and janitorial's been. Damn it all. 

But Martin can't be staying here without facilities of some kind, so Jon takes a deep breath, sterns himself, and heads back to his office.

"Martin," he starts.

"Oh good," Martin says, looking at his phone, "I was just going to come after you. Do you like anchovies? I never saw the point really, but I don't _dis_ like them, so if you want them we can—"

" _Martin_ ," interrupts Jon insistently. He's jiggling again, bouncing on the spot, his face flushed but too desperate to stop himself. "Do you have the key to the toilets?"

"The— oh! Yeah, I had a spare made," says Martin, looking up. "I've got it... oh, no, it's probably down with my stuff, I put it on my key ring."

"Could you fetch it, please," Jon says peevishly, and Martin seems to finally realize the state Jon's in. He blushes, jumps to his feet.

"Yeah, yeah, of course," he says, and Jon must look exactly as close to wetting himself as he feels right now, because Martin books it. Jon turns and starts the agonizing return to the bathroom doors, but he takes about three steps and feels the warmth in his cock as a hot trickle escapes into his briefs. Mortified, he grabs his groin again, squeezing so tight it hurts even as he can feel the wet spot spreading across the front of his trousers.

No. No. He will not wet himself like a child. He needs — a water bottle, a coffee mug, a pot plant, _something_ acceptable to piss into. Sanitation concerns suddenly seem irrelevant. Pissing in public seems acceptable. The prospect of Martin catching him doesn't even register as a blip on the embarrassment radar next to the mortifying possibility of— 

"I've got it," says Martin breathless and red-faced in the doorway, brandishing the key. He takes in Jon, and his triumph immediately morphs into concern. "Come on, you can make it," he says optimistically, coming over like he could possibly do anything to help. Maybe he intends to pick Jon up and carry him to the bathroom. God knows Jon can't seem to take a single step on his own.

"I," he says roughly, voice low and hoarse. "I don't think I can." Another hot rush and another humiliating trickle, and the shame is awful enough that he might actually cry, but the relief of his screaming bladder whites out everything else. "No," he says, suddenly frantic, "Oh, no no no," because he can feel the urine warm down his thigh now, can smell it all acrid, and Martin is right there, watching him wide eyed.

"It's okay," he says, sounding shaky. "Can you—"

Jon groans as his bladder cramps, and he doubles over, trying to use both hands now to physically hold himself back. But it's like repairing a cracked dam with chewing gum, the pressure simply too much.

"I'll get—" Martin says suddenly, darting into Jon's office and coming back with his water glass, but it's too late, Jon is going in earnest. His trousers are soaked, and it runs all the way down his legs to his socks, and he lets out a soft sob as he gives in to the disgusting humiliation of wetting himself like a child.

"Try and stop, Jon," Martin is coaxing him, even as he's pulling Jon's hands away from where they're pressed against his groin. Jon groans, the idea of stopping this relentless tidal wave of release seemingly impossible. "I'm going to help you get it in the cup, okay?" 

Jon nods. He's tear-streaked and wet and still trying to hold himself back, both physically and emotionally, and he doesn't stop Martin as he undoes wet trousers and peels down soppy briefs, presses the glass over Jon's groin. It's just a trickle at first, his muscles all locked up, but Martin rubs the small of his back and says, "Hey, it's all right, could happen to anyone, let's try and get you to the WC shall we?" and Jon takes two steps forward with him and that must be enough, must open something, because suddenly he's pissing into the glass. He moans, and takes it from Martin, holds it there himself.

"Don't look," he whispers, miserable.

"I won't," promises Martin. "I'm not." Not that it matters. It's audible, fluid splashing hard into the glass. And Jon can't keep himself quiet, soft little whimpers of release dragged out of his chest as he finally just lets himself piss. It feels so good. Unspeakably good. Like the relief of jerking himself to completion at the end of a long, difficult day, something he does only rarely. But alongside that sweet pleasure is the filthy shame, and that's what's actually making him twitch a little, cock swelling and lifting just slightly.

He's not done when the glass starts to get full, but the urgency has abated and he's halfway to erect, so it actually isn't too difficult to make himself slow to a trickle and then stop entirely. "Could you unlock the door please," he says to Martin, quiet and subdued.

Martin does, and Jon finishes his business in the urinal, pours away the contents of the glass and throws the glass itself in the bin to boot. Washes his hands, even though it seems pointless when he's such a mess, trousers sticking to him, the wet cooling over his thighs. His eyes in the mirror are red-rimmed and hazy.

The door opens, and Martin comes in. "I um, brought you a change of clothes?" he offers, and there they are in his arms. "I'm a bit bigger than you, I think, but it's just sweatpants and a t-shirt. And I have a towel — I thought maybe you could wet it and use it to wipe down a little, like a sponge bath."

Jon, who hasn't let himself feel ordinary human emotion in literal months, is so taken aback by this offer that he feels an overwhelming surge of emotion again, rubs suddenly at his eyes. "Martin," he manages, sounding like sandpaper and despair.

"God, Jon, I am so sorry," Martin says, and Jon isn't sure what he's apologizing for until: "I shouldn't have brought you all that stuff to drink, or I should have had the bathroom key on me, or just... listen, I know you're probably embarrassed, but don't be. I looked after my mum from a pretty young age, and she was incontinent, I've seen worse things."

Jon swallows, not sure if that helps.

"Just, look, splash your face a bit," says Martin, turning on the taps next sink over. "I'll wet my towel, and you can — I mean, I'll go, obviously, since you'll need to get undressed. Can finish ordering that pizza."

"No," says Jon.

"No pizza? It's a bit late but we could probably still get a curry from somewhere if—"

"Don't go," says Jon. Martin goes still. "I know this is highly unprofessional..."

Martin snickers. "Yeah, um, pretty sure that line's been crossed," he says, but tempers that moment of dryness with a more sincere: "Anything you need, Jon."

"Would you like to come home with me?" Jon offers, and he hadn't even been certain that was what he wanted until exactly now. "I need a shower, and you... shouldn't be sleeping in the Institute by yourself. And I'd prefer company, right now." Because even if he just humiliated himself in front of Martin, the idea of having to face all that crushing vulnerability alone terrifies him. And he feels dangerously detached from himself. "In fact," he adds, "While I may have found your fussing irritating in the past, right now I find I'm grateful for it."

"Oh," says Martin, looking slightly twitterpated. "Well, great. Um, do you... want a hug?"

"I'm not really in a fit state for hugging," Jon points out. Martin chuckles awkwardly.

"Yeah. Yeah, course. Raincheck on the hug. Come on, you should still get out of those wet clothes." And he might not give Jon a hug, but he does dare to come a little closer, press a warm and comforting hand to the back of his neck. Jon closes his eyes.

"Thank you, Martin," he says, faintly. Stumbles through undressing himself with clumsy fingers, Martin helping where he can, though still doing his best to keep his eyes above Jon's neckline. "It's strange, how tired I feel," Jon admits. "Perhaps it's the statement."

"And the adrenaline," points out Martin, turning away to rinse Jon's wet trousers in the sink and give him some privacy for a wipedown. Jon cleans himself up as best he can, groin to ankle, and then gets dressed in Martin's clothes, soft and roomy.

"There," he says, and Martin turns, and after a beat, hugs him. Jon goes rigid but relaxes into it, burrowing into Martin's neck, feeling strangely cared for in this shitty little bathroom. He presses closer, wanting his whole body against the solidity of Martin's, and— 

Ah.

Martin breaks the hug as Jon tenses, red like two slaps of colour on his cheeks and absolutely speechless. "Sorry," he manages.

Jon tries to consider how he feels about it, the telltale rigid press of Martin's erection. Not disgusted, no. And he can't seem to summon any embarrassment despite his usual prudishness; after everything he just went through it seems trivial. Instead he finds himself fascinated, curious. He wants to touch it, just to see what Martin does. He wants to know: "Why," he asks, and when an Archivist asks a question quite often there is no recourse but to answer.

"You should have seen yourself," Martin whispers, face flaming. Even his ears are red. Jon finds he can almost feel it, Martin's embarrassment and arousal. "You were so desperate, your hands between your legs... and then when you couldn't hold back any more you looked rapturous, like I was watching you come. And now you're all, you're all messy and needy and letting me look after you and, I'm really into that. Plus I keep thinking about your cock."

He comes to an abrupt stop, and Jon takes a step forward, wanting to press for more, wanting to know what _about_ his cock. But. No. He restrains himself with a shiver.

"Come home with me," he says, not a query this time, his eyes dark and intense on Martin. "I want to take you to bed."

"Are you sure?" squeaks Martin. "I mean, yeah, I want to, of course, but this seems sort of sudden."

"It's not," Jon says curtly, and then reaches between Martin's legs, feels him out and squeezes. Martin makes a shuddering, gasping noise. "Don't think too hard," Jon informs him. "Just get your stuff."

"Okay," agrees Martin, still obviously stunned. "Okay, yes. My stuff." He stares at Jon a little longer, before seeming to realize that requires actual movement, and then he finally goes, off to pack a quick overnight bag.

For his part, Jon wraps his wet clothes in the towel, an unpleasant bundle, and goes around to check the locks and turn the lights out. It feels strange, barefoot and in someone else's clothes, skin prickling still with someone else's arousal. 

By the time they are in the car, Martin seems to have wrested brain function back from his dick, because he's nervous again, keeps looking across at Jon. "Are you _sure_ ," he asks again. "I mean, I appreciate not having to stay in the Archives, but even just getting to use the shower and sleep on the couch is fine, more than generous, really? It's, um. We're coworkers, Jon. You're my boss."

"I think, as you said, we're past the point of professionalism, don't you?" Jon says, hands steady on the wheel. "Yes, Martin, I'm sure."

"All right," says Martin, but he only subsides for a few more moments before bursting out with, "It's just, I didn't think you _did_ that sort of thing? Like, I know I was a bit, um, a bit worked up back there, but I don't expect you to... if you'd rather just have a bite to eat and cuddle, maybe? That would be okay?"

"Both of those do sound good," agrees Jon, implacable. "Would you prefer them before or after we have sex?"

"Oh," says Martin, flustered again, "I um. God." He doesn't seem to know what to say now, which is good — Jon doesn't want to pull his own motivations here apart. He knows he probably could have had this from Martin at any time over the past — well, for a long time. But this is the first time he's wanted it. 

"I'm not a virgin," he tells Martin, just in case that's the hang up. "I've experimented. But you made me feel..."

"Yes?" asks Martin, sounding a little breathless.

"I don't know," Jon admits. "Good, I suppose. Something other than the constant dread which plagues me." He glances at Martin, but it's hard to read his expression in the shifting streetlights. "Interested," he adds, softer. 

"In me?" Martin asks, disbelievingly. "Or in sex?"

"In you. And... in the way it felt to come apart in front of you. You're an easy man for me to trust, and trust is something of a rarity for me, these days."

"All right," says Martin, apparently mollified, though he relaxes for about two seconds and then realizes he's going to have sex with Jon and immediately gets nervous again, this time less because of Jon maybe not wanting to and more because what if it wasn't good? He practically vibrates in the seat next to Jon, but despite being aware of it, and the reasons for it, Jon remains some kind of zen. It's as if after wetting himself anxiety simply can't touch him anymore. He'll castigate himself for all of this tomorrow.

Jon's flat is small and ordinary, furnished with what he salvaged from his grandmother's when she passed and he took the Institute job in London. There are no photographs or plants, minimal decorations, and his shelves have mostly vinyl records and paranormal non-fiction. The kitchenette, at least, looks properly lived in, garlic and saucepans hanging alongside each other, the fruit bowl full. There's a single door to Jon's bedroom.

"I'm going to shower," says Jon, "And then I'm going to get into my bed and you can... well, you can do whatever you want with me."

"Okay," squeaks Martin.

The shower is quick, just rinsing off the grime of the day and the last of the mess he'd made of himself. He doesn't dress when he's dry, just wraps a towel around his waist and emerges into his bedroom. It's dark, except for the street lights outside and the living room lamp spilling in. Martin is already in his bed.

"I hope you don't mind," he says. "I just, I'd prefer the lights off? For now."

"All right," says Jon, even though he suspects this is due to Martin feeling self-conscious about his body, something Jon sees as pointless. He doesn't care about how Martin carries his weight beneath his anoraks, or if his freckles cover his whole body, just like he isn't really self-conscious about his own body, scarred and gaunt. He drops the towel next to the bed, and climbs into Martin's arms.

Anything, Jon had promised him. Martin starts with a kiss, dry and tentative, which Jon allows but doesn't really reciprocate, until that makes Martin pull back in concern. "Are you— all right?"

"What?" asks Jon, and then, "Yes? Tell me if there's something you're expecting me to do."

"Right, yeah, just say 'Jon, you should kiss me back.'" Martin says sarcastically.

"Yes," says Jon. "Exactly that sort of thing." And then he kisses Martin back, all his tired affection in it. Martin moans softly into his mouth. Jon considers him with unabashed curiosity when the kiss breaks, trying to measure if he's done well. He thinks, from what he can see, he has.

Martin reaches shyly between Jon's legs, clumsy in the dark. "Oh," he whispers when he finds hair and then petal-soft skin, warm beneath his fingertips. Soft, Jon's cock is barely more than the thick head hidden behind a loose scrunch of foreskin, and Martin thumbs over it with quiet awe. "You're so small."

"Thank you, Martin," says Jon with longsuffering sarcasm, prickly about his size, and Martin flusters.

"Sorry, I didn't mean — I like it. I like small ones, actually." He pinches it, rolls the foreskin down to expose the sensitive tip, circles it lightly. His thumbnail brushes Jon's slit and apparently he likes that because he makes a noise, low and chesty, his breath quickening. "Is this okay?"

"Yes." Jon's turned his head away, neck straining. "Get on with it."

"We don't have to—"

" _Martin_ ," Jon says sharply, and Martin can feel the twitch of his pulse flushing his cock with blood, making it leap eagerly up into Martin's palm. Martin is having a similar reaction, though he can't say for sure if it's handling Jon's penis so intimately or the familiar sharp scold in his tone. 

"Look at you," Martin croons, almost a whisper, as he works Jon's foreskin back and forth. "Getting hard for me. 

"Well," says Jon, prim, "I'd say it's really more the effect of manual stimulation than strictly—"

" _Jon_ ," interrupts Martin, apparently it's his turn to scold. "Just ... just let me enjoy this, all right? It turns me on a lot, um, feeling it."

"Does it?" Jon seems baffled, and Martin can tell he's trying to peer at him, but there's no light and Jon is without his glasses besides, so he probably can't see the way Martin is flushing down to his chest. "That doesn't make any sense. It's just a physiological reaction, like any other organ. I don't understand why—"

Martin sighs, and instead of interrupting him again he just drops his face into Jon's lap and takes him into his mouth. Jon makes a high, startled noise and curls up, shoulders and knees lifting, and then when Martin's lips are all the way down his growing shaft and sucking hard, he collapses again, starfishing out flat, and gives a wounded whimper. "Martin," he says, dazed. 

Martin presses a big warm hand over Jon's stomach and massages there, soothing, as he sloppily sucks Jon. Long, stretching pulls of his cock, which swells into his mouth. Jon groans, flutters his elegant hands like he's not sure what to do with them. "Is this," he tries to ask, strained, "Is this good? For you? Should I be, touching you?"

The noise of his cock leaving Martin's mouth is obscene. "If you like," Martin says, amiable, looking up at the shape of Jon in the dark. He presses a kiss to Jon's stomach, nuzzles the soft hair below his navel. "God, Jon," he exhales, laughter in his voice. "Just getting to touch you is, um, huge. For me. Half the time when I wank I'm thinking about sucking you off."

"And the other half?" asks Jon, unfairly sharp for a man whose erection is a solid line of heat against Martin's freckled shoulder right now.

"All sorts of things," says Martin, a little embarrassed. "You know. What you'd be like naked, getting to kiss and touch you, that sort of thing."

"I see," says Jon. There's something about him right now — there's no way he can see Martin, but Martin still feels his gaze like it's a physical touch. "Tell me exactly what you fantasize about doing with me, Martin."

The resonance of Jon's voice crackles down into his lungs and without thinking Martin answers: "I like thinking about you under my desk, on your knees. You snapped at me earlier over something stupid that wasn't even my fault, and now you feel bad so as punishment you're holding my cock in your mouth. I'm only half hard — your mouth feels amazing, obviously, but I've got a lot of work to do. So you just sit there patiently, breathing through your nose, keeping my dick on your tongue. And I want to test if you're — if you're really contrite, you know, if you'll really take anything I give you right now, so when I realize I need to piss—"

"Martin," says Jon, low and hoarse, scandalized but not disgusted.

"When I realize, I— I just let go, and I feel all that hot fluid trickling out of my cock, and it feels so good, shameful and dirty but so good, freeing, just doing it at my desk. In- in your mouth. And you don't even hesitate, you just swallow it. The suction of you, um, drinking me, it's intense, and I start to get hard before I'm even really done pissing, but you keep your mouth sealed around me until there's nothing more left. I think you'd keep your mouth on me even then, but I pull you off by the hair and it only takes a couple of strokes at that point to just come all over your face—"

He breaks off, breathless.

"Well," says Jon, sounding a little uncomfortable, and Martin flushes suddenly, feels his stomach drop cold. 

"Oh my god," he sputters, "Jon, I am — so sorry, that's, weird, I know it's weird, I don't expect you to— god, I don't know why I said any of that, I don't actually want to... it's just something I thought about."

"I know why you said it," Jon says quietly, and Martin wants to wither away at his tone, certain that the disgust must be aimed at him. And yet, when he continues, it's without castigation: "Martin. It's all right. Really. Thank you for telling me.I won't deny I don't understand, but I don't understand most of what turns people on, I think." 

Martin snorts, feeling his intense distress starting to calm. "Not even getting your cock sucked?"

Jon chuckles. "All right," he says primly, "I'll admit fellatio has its appeal. It's intimate, and physically pleasurable, and..." A pause, long enough that Martin almost starts to speak, but Jon seems to make himself find the words. "I like the fact that it arouses you."

Martin turns his face and presses a chaste kiss to Jon's cock. "All of you, um, arouses me," he admits, echoing Jon's language. He peeks up at him, and Jon, looking down, feels so tender about it he can barely stand it. Pats Martin's curls awkwardly. 

"I apologize," he says. "I shouldn't have asked you something so personal when you don't have any choice but to answer."

"Oh," says Martin, and, belatedly, getting it: "Was I giving you a statement?" He blinks. "I didn't even realize." A pause, and he considers Jon's erection, one hand toying with it. "This isn't for the piss stuff. Do you get off on taking them?"

"I — no," demurs Jon. "Not exactly. It's complicated. I don't — certainly not when I'm recording. But there's something very satisfactory about receiving answers."

Martin crawls back up Jon's body, then, settling carefully over him, interested. "So you like it?"

"Yes," admits Jon. "Though I would prefer not to be wrenching free anything you wouldn't actually want me to know. I'm not trying to humiliate you."

"Um, I mean, it's not like humiliation doesn't have its moments," admits Martin shyly. He runs a hand over Jon's chest and stomach idly, just petting him. "I think you know that, too."

Jon clears his throat. "Yes. Well." He turns suddenly, considering Martin for a quiet moment before cupping his face and kissing him, firm and brief. Martin stares back when it breaks with wide eyes. 

"What was that for?" He seems taken aback.

"I wanted to, I suppose. Despite knowing where your mouth's been." He watches as Martin's startlement morphs into a pleased grin. Jon huffs. "Are we going to have relations or aren't we?" Martin mouths _have relations_ at him and Jon snorts. "I don't see any need to be crude."

"I do?" Martin informs him, reaching down to unbutton his fly. "I definitely, definitely do. Actually, if you're not interested in, um — if you just want to help," he wiggles out of his trousers and kicks them away off the little bed. "Saying crude things would probably do it for me."

"Oh, er." Jon pushes up onto an elbow, watching Martin stripping down with interest. "All right. I... I'm not sure whether—" he exhales. "All right. Yes. Martin, I would like to give you an orgasm. And I wouldn't be adverse to you giving me one, too, since I think that I could... come, from you repeating your actions of earlier."

Martin laughs despite himself. Jon flushed ruddy, pushes at him as he tries to bury the laughter in Jon's neck. "Sorry," he apologizes between giggles. "Sorry, just. God. That was sort of hot, you have a good voice, you know? Just, next time say the words 'suck my cock'."

Jon repeats flatly, deeply unimpressed: "Suck my cock."

Martin laughs again, though it's a little throatier now. "God, I know you're being a dick, but that is still just... very good, y'know?"

"I'll take your word for it," Jon tells him. "Can I touch you?"

"You can _absolutely_ touch me," Martin says encouragingly. Jon seems hesitant, as he brushes his palm over Martin's stomach. Martin's breath picks up, a little ticklish and a lot aroused but determined to be still, let Jon take his time exploring. Still, when he finally gets a hand curled around his cock he can't help but give a low cry.

"Ah," Jon murmurs, watching his face unblinkingly. "That was quite a lovely face you made just now, Martin." This is absolutely his attempt at being crude; he licks his lips nervously and then says, "I'm concerned if I ask you questions I'll accidentally compel you again."

"I don't mind," says Martin, trying to coax him closer. "I don't mind being compelled, why would I, but kiss me again first, all right?"

Jon must think that's a fair trade, because he does kiss Martin, concentrating hard on both the slide of their tongues and the movement of his hand as he slowly massages Martin's shaft. He only rarely touches himself but he's still had enough practice with that that he doesn't feel too out of his depth, though there's a lot more of Martin to work with — and also a bit less. 

Case in point, as he rubs and squeezes Martin makes a high noise that isn't quite pleasure, muffled into Jon's mouth, and then pulls back. "A little gentler?" he requests. "Maybe um, if your hand was wet, you could slide it more."

"Hm." Jon moves his hand up the length of Martin's cock, thumbs the ridge of the head. "I'm used to having skin to work with," he admits.

Martin reaches down and puts his hand over Jon's hand, shivers bodily. "You're doing good," he reassures, "Just, bring your hand up —" and he lifts Jon's hand to his mouth and licks across the palm, spits in it filthily. "There," he says, and this time when Jon grips him he groans, curling closer. "Yeah," he murmurs, lashes low, encouraging Jon to stroke him so that the spit crackles loudly over his skin. "Fuck yes, like that."

"Tell me how it feels," Jon instructs, and Martin gasps like a landed fish as the question hooks into him.

"It's — it feels good," he manages. "You, your hand, it's so warm and firm and the friction of every stroke is, it feels amazing. It's better than when I touch myself because — because it's you doing it, and I can touch you, you're right there, and your cock, and — Jon, it feels so good, it feels so good."

"Good," says Jon, sounding pleased by this breathless tumble of words, and he can feel Martin's pleasure under his own skin, now, a heady desire that he's never really felt for anyone in his life and is baffled to have directed at himself. "Would you prefer me to finish you off like this? Or would it be better for you perhaps to," he clears his throat, "Suck my cock, as discussed, and therefore build your own pleasure."

Martin is laughing at him again, soft against Jon's bare skin, hitching a little because — how could he be so daft and so fucking sexy at the same time? "Yeah, let me get you off first," he agrees, "I want to see you."

First, though, he kisses Jon again, encourages Jon's hand away from his cock and just makes out with him for a while. Jon likes the way Martin shivers under his touch, like his whole body is sensitive now. He likes the way nervous, passive Martin gets pushy with his kisses, claiming Jon's mouth. He likes the slow build of the two of them just fumbling against each other, rocking into each other's thighs.

"Oh," he says suddenly, something overtaking him with abrupt suddenness, just as his bladder had made itself known all that once. This feels a little like that but lower, and more pleasant, and he makes a stuttery chest noise and rust against Martin, smearing their kiss across his cheekbone. "I may not need your mouth after all," Jon admits in a rush.

That has Martin pulling back to look at him, drinking his expression avidly in. "Are you close?" he asks, and kisses Jon's neck, as Jon murmurs his assent. He thinks he's close. He's something. On the brink of some pleasure he doesn't know how to contain, but too oversensitive to quite get there. He shudders as Martin kisses his chest, tongues one tightly scrunched nipple.

"I like these," he tells Jon, no compulsion necessary, as he sucks sharply on the pink bud and Jon moans. "Sometimes I could see them outlined through your shirt and I'd think about what it would be like to have my mouth on them." He swaps to Jon's other nipple, using his teeth to stretch it so that Jon swears and trembles.

"I'm going to come," he tells Martin hoarsely.

"You're not," promises Martin, kissing his diaphragm fondly. "Not until you're in my mouth. But keep telling me if you'd like."

Right. The voice thing. It's not the first time he's been told he has a nice voice and accent, erotic, appealing. It's not even the first time in this bed. But he still flushes and strokes a hand through Martin's hair and says, with false confidence, "I'm going to ejaculate right into your mouth. You're going to taste my sperm."

"You do realize that's not hot," Martin says from around his hip. "I mean, it is to me, because I could wank to you reading the stock market, but sperm isn't actually a sexy word."

"Oh," says Jon. "Sorry. I'm afraid I'm not _au fait_ with dirty talk."

"Just..." Martin bites his lip as he looks up at Jon. "Just swear and say my name a lot. Tell me how lovely I look, and that I'm going to make you come."

"So you _don't_ want me to tell you to hurry up and suck my cock?"

Much to Jon's interest and delight, Martin flushes at that, squirms just a little. "Well..." he says slowly, measuring it out. "I mean, maybe if you get really impatient you could say, _come on Martin, get on with it_." He does a passable impression of Jon's accent, his tone when he's telling Martin off around the office, and Jon raises an eyebrow.

"Get on with it, Martin," he says. "You said you were going to suck me and you haven't even started yet." Struck by inspiration, he adds: "If you don't think you're up to the task, I can ask someone else..."

"Oh, fuck," says Martin. "Wow, that's. Yeah. This is definitely a thing I'm into, apparently. Who knew! Well, great. I'm just going to, um." And he finally takes Jon's cock back into his mouth, sucking devotedly.

"Good to know we're both learning new things about ourselves," Jon says dryly — or, he wants it to be dryly, but it's actually just a bit tremulous. His entire lower half feels tightened up, his cock an aching throb in Martin's tender mouth. 

This is a new thing, in so many ways. He feels tender about Martin, wants to touch his hair — and also wants to see what else can make him flushwrithegasp the way being touched does. Is it a certain tone in Jon's voice? A specific word? Needs more data. But he's fascinated. And that fascination and tenderness twin strangely with the arousal he usually attributes solely to manual stimulation. Though if he's being honest, Martin's mouth is better than anything his hand has ever managed, warm and eager, the vacuum suction along the whole length intense, making him feel like all the blood in his body has found its way to his cock.

The sensation means his voice is a little wobbly, but he still does his best approximation of his exhausted longsuffering tone. He's not a good actor, but on the other hand, it's not a difficult emotion to summon, irritated resignation to his terrible lot in life almost always near to hand. "Christ, Martin," he says, very different from the way he wants to moan those same words. "If you're not careful you're going to make me come in your mouth. Or would you like that?"

For all his disdain it's a genuine warning, so he tries not to be disappointed when Martin pops off. But it's just so he can speak: "Are you actually going to come?"

"Yes," admits Jon, and adds, strained, "Quite soon if you keep moving your hand."

"Oh," laughs Martin, "Sorry." 

He doesn't stop moving his hand.

"I mean it, Martin, you'll get it in your face—"

"Maybe that's where I want it," points out Martin, slightly cheeky. "Your load splashed all over me, marking me, degrading me..."

That's not even — that doesn't even really do anything for Jon, and yet his body must reach stimulation overload because he feels himself cross the point of no return suddenly. Closes his eyes and heaves with it, trembling and restless and taut right up until the release hits him.

"Martin—"

Aaand he's done. Martin doesn't actually catch it in the face, though, slips Jon back into his mouth and swallows him with messy noises. Nuzzles all around Jon's groin after, pressing little kisses there.

Jon feels delightfully boneless, and better still, like all the stress of nerves and humiliating himself at work (and all the other usual stressors of an Archivist's life) have been shunted to the side. He's relaxed, and he smiles at Martin as the man crawls back up his body.

"Hi," Martin says bashfully.

"Oh, now you're shy?" Jon responds with a snort. But there's a moment of eye contact between them and — all right, yes, Jon feels it as well, something he wants to play coy with because it's too terrifying otherwise. "Your turn," he decides, because that's much easier, and starts to explore Martin's body, light dry kisses and wandering hands.

"Won't take long," Martin promises, and then gasps as Jon's thigh presses against him, groans and works himself against it. "Jon," he whines, and Jon pulls him closer, squeezes him encouragingly.

"I want to see you come," he says, and it's a factual statement, because he's fascinated, but Martin moans again and the pace of his hips picks up. He drops a hand between them, touching himself with harsh movements, and Jon lets him, lets Martin work himself over the edge in exactly the way he likes best.

For the second time today Jon feels embarrassingly filthy. Martin pets his hair mindlessly, chewing at the skin of his neck, hips shifting mindlessly into his own mess. "Mm," he says, and then, "Wow. I can't believe you let me, um — wow."

"Quite," says Jon crisply. He cuddles Martin closer. They're quiet a moment, contemplative, though if Martin is still hung up on the way Jon has left him buzzing with pleasure, Jon's thoughts have turned in an entirely different direction.

"Martin," he says, "All things considered, if you wish to sleep at my house rather than the Institute for so long as we have our infestation problem, I — well, I wouldn't be adverse to it."

"In your bed?" asks Martin muzzily, teasing.

"In my bed," confirms Jon, and then despite knowing where his mouth has recently been, despite not typically having an interest in this kind of physicality, he kisses Martin, long and slow.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Unto the Breach](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16429862) by [ElwritesFanworks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks)




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